Not Our Department
by JustAfraidofSnakes
Summary: Sherlock becomes one of the survivors of the Oceanic 815 crash. Lost belongs to ABC and Sherlock belongs to BBC. Rated T for mild language and gore.
1. Prolouge

Pointless. That was the only word that came to Sherlock's mind when he thought about his captors' efforts to subdue him. Pointless.

Of course, that was before they drugged him. Then he wasn't thinking anything.

Then suddenly all he could do was think, but against his will, all of his mental energy focused on how much his head hurt. Not because of the drugs, as he'd later discover, but from the multiple bumps on his head. If he'd been allowed to absorb the rest of his surroundings, he would've been fairly limited, anyway; he was stuck in a suitcase, albeit a big one.

In a few moments, the dizziness wore off and he felt it wise to wait for his brain to start working at full capacity.

If he had known of the ongoing firestorm outside, he would've thought otherwise.


	2. Day One: Evening

Sherlock squinted with closed eyes at the ever-present throbbing in every feeling part of his head. The firelight hitting his eyelids did anything but soften the pain, and it took a full ten seconds at least for the high pitched whine in his ears to soften to nothing. Now unfamiliar voices filled the void. He opened his eyes painfully and saw nothing but clusters of dull color and shadow blurring together. He shut them in a heartbeat, happy for the immediate relief.

With his sight out of commission, his ears sharpened.

"Is he awake yet?" said one practiced voice from a comfortable distance away.

"No, he's strip-teasin' with over on top of the mountain with Madonna and Mick Jagger." growled another with overflowing amounts of gruff sarcasm. "Whaddya think?"

A more laid-back voice sighed, "Dude, you didn't hafta-"

"Shut it, Jumbotron." The rude one shot back.

*SLAP*

"Sonuvabitch..." The rude voice was lower now, more begrudging.

"Am I now?" growled the noticeably female slapper before Sherlock blacked out again.


	3. Day Two: Midnight

A rough, wet, canine tongue slapped across his face and brought him back to the land of the living. Sherlock jerked up into a sitting position, incidentally shoving the dog off his chest. It stayed by his side nevertheless as the man rubbed his temples and stood up.

Now that his mind was operational, it raced in reaction to the sand under his toes, the strangers sleeping in self-made lean-to's and tents. Where am I? Who are they? What happened when I was "out"? Some of the answers came to him when he looked further down the beach.

While the mini-town behind him was abuzz with nervous snoring, the scrapyard ahead was silent, save for intervals of horrible groaning. He assumed it was an animal until he saw the leaning, decimated frame of an aeroplane wing. As he went closer, the ground solidified. Assuming it was only water-packed sand at first, he noticed the subtle stickiness and looked down. The tiny emotional part of him gagged at the dark mixture of blood and sand under his bare feet. Unlike the rest of the sand, this patch was still warm, despite the only thing in the sky being the moon. Noting the shallow gash on his shin, Sherlock guessed - no, _knew_ - that the blood was his. The cut had scab tissue around the edges; getting up had opened it back up again.

Glancing back at the others, he saw a seemingly unclaimed pile of laundry. He remembered how John always nagged him about bandaging himself up in times like this, so he rolled his eyes and hastily grabbed the first thing he saw (a pink blouse) to knot it around his leg.

He continued on and blatantly ignored the pain, the dog trotting dutifully at his heels, and his failure to get his left eye working. The shredded metal scattered about varied in size and shape, but the strangely darkened edges and warped shapes suggested a fire or explosion. It would've helped him to know what had happened to him over the last 48 hours, but the bump on the back of his head deprived him of the memories, and subsequently the information. A few more minutes of looking around helped him get most of his memories back, and then some.

The metal was what remained of the Australian jet, Oceanic 815, which had crashed en route to the LAX. That meant that wherever the crash had taken place was somewhere in the Pacific Ocean, information that Sherlock had courtesy of the atlas that Mycroft had forced him to read multiple times as a kid.

He took a moment to curse his name before continuing the investigation.

Clearly, the dog that had awoken him wasn't indigenous to the island; he/she/it had been down in the belly of the plane with the rest of the luggage and pets, all of which seemed to be intact. Thus, the plane must have come in diagonally, with one wing being the first to hit the ground. It was then that Sherlock's train of thought came to a screeching halt: Even with air resistance, the plane couldn't have possibly crashed without killing everyone inside, yet there were at least forty people just down the beach. Another thought came: Where was the tail end of the plane? The turbulence in his own brain kept his attention off of the rising sun.

Just as he took another step forward, a stranger's hand on his shoulder pulled the world's only consulting detective back out of his mind palace and into the land of the living.


	4. Day Three: Sunrise

Sherlock turned.

"What are you doing up? You need to be laying down." It was the American woman. In a second, he scanned her from her freckled face to the obviously stolen (maybe salvaged) work boots on her feet and almost immediately determined that she was a fugitive. For what crime, he couldn't tell, but he supposed a felony of some kind.

Before he could snap back a reply based off of these things, someone else interrupted. "Kate, he was folded up in a _suitcase_ for who-knows-how-long. If anything, he needs to be on his feet."

Kate turned to face the speaker, a man in a tattered suit with bloodstains across the shoulders. "Jack, look at his leg."

Jack did so and looked back at her. "He's already bandaged it. He can take care of himself. Can't you?" The last question was directed at Sherlock.

He frowned and tried unsuccessfully to form an answer, groaning unevenly rather than speaking coherent words. He brought a hand to his neck and felt an unfamiliar patch of gauze bordered by hastily applied strips of packing tape. His brow furrowed even further.

"You don't remember...?" said Jack, not needing to finish the question.

Sherlock shook his head slowly. Kate shuffled through a nearby suitcase and found a little mirror. She wiped it a bit with the hem of her shirt and handed it to him. "In that case, you might wanna see."

He looked at her incredulously for a moment, then accepted it. He knew he was injured, but he had no clue how bad it looked until this point.

Both of his eyes were bloodshot and ringed with healing bruises and tiny lacerations, but the left one seemed to be taking a little longer to get better; it was almost swollen closed and crusted with scab material. His lip was split as well, giving him more than enough credibility to say that he'd been in a nasty bar fight. He gingerly took off the bandages on his neck to reveal an acceptionally deep slit carved almost methodically from the underside of his chin to the dip in his collarbone. It seemed as if the only factor keeping everything that could be considered his throat from spilling out was the row of stitches lining the whole thing. Now that he was actually taking notice of all of these things they started actually causing him pain.

He cringed and tossed the mirror over his shoulder and behind a conveniently placed bit of metal, smirking a bit when it found its target. *THWOK* "SHONOVABITCH!" Said target cursed through his hands and fell backwards, rubbing his mouth. He seemed to be checking if he still had all his teeth when he stood up and glared at Sherlock. He flicked his hair out of his face and growled.

Kate sighed shortly and Jack did the same through his nose. "Sawyer, you couldn't wait until daylight to pickpocket every corpse on this side of the beach?"

Sawyer seemed to ooze smugness, contrary to his drama queen response to previous events. "Every man for himself. Ain't that right, Freckles?"

Kate rolled her eyes and started going back to her tent, so Sawyer's attention switched over to who he thought was the next most vulnerable target. "I'm startin' to see why you got your ass kicked." He took a step towards the continually passive Sherlock. "Throwin' things at people? Well, that just ain't nice."

"Go back to camp, Sawyer. You've made your point." Jack butted in. "If anything's gonna get done tomorrow, you need to rest for at least a few hours."

"Go back to the hospital, Doc. You seemed perfectly content playin' nurse with sweet little Kate over there." Sawyer hissed back. That one seemed to throw him for a loop, even more so when he finished it off. "Though I have to say, I thought about joinin' there for a bit."

"What's going on?" Barked a new male voice. The others instantly faced the man speaking. To Sherlock, he was a stranger with a well-hidden inferiority complex, obvious daddy issues, and an even more obvious scabbing wound over his right eye. To the other survivors, he was Mr. Clean, Daniel Boone, Hoss, or as he preferred, Locke.


	5. Day Three: Morning

"Why don_'_t you tell 'im, Scarface?" Sawyer jabbed at Sherlock, who glared and zombie-groaned at him in response. He was still fingering the bandages, trying to get accustomed to the feel.

The man Sawyer had been addressing pinched the bridge of his nose. "Sawyer, there are two kinds of people: the ones that bark and the ones that bite. It's clear which group you fit into, so if you don't mind, I'd like to speak with this man here."

"If you haven't noticed, it's not like he's gonna talk _back_."

"And if you're smart, neither are you. Get _back_ to your _tent_."

His clearly given command was met with silence and a glare with an undertone of shock.

The tension was choking, and the melodramatic shadows cast across the assembly's faces by the still-rising sun did nothing to diffuse it.

Then, finally, there was movement.

Sawyer raised a hand in false salute and stalked off, calling, "Will do, Captain Picard" over his shoulder.

Jack was already gone, probably tending to the other injured survivors as they were waking up. That left Sherlock and 'Captain Picard'.

They stared across the sand, each sizing the other up. The man extended a calloused hand in the starting half of a handshake.

"Hope you had a good night's sleep. My name is Locke."

Sherlock continued staring placidly at him and Locke put his hand down. "Not a handshaker?"

Sherlock answered him with a continuation of the stare.

"Oh well. It's time you got settled. Between the two of us, we're all going to be here for awhile."

* * *

It's kind of disappointing. I can't do dialogue.

That big white box below is there for a reason. You know what you have to do.


	6. Day Three: High Noon

"Dude." Sherlock looked up from his spot on the beach where he'd been sitting almost motionless since that morning.

Hurley was standing just behind him and to his left. "Jack said you can't really...you know, talk, with your whole..." He winced and motioned to his neck, "...Situation, so, I figured this might help or something." He held out a notepad with a pen hooked through the spiral. "If you feel like sayin' something, just use that, I guess."

Sherlock took the notebook and nodded, giving the young man more thanks than he'd ever given any other human being in his life, but he had alterior motives. It was clear that the one-sided conversation was making Hurley comfortable, and if he was going to get any more decent thinking done, Sherlock needed to be alone. He got what he wanted when Hurley returned the gesture and went back to his own campsite.

Once he was gone, Sherlock exhaled, put the notebook down, and looked back to the waves washing across the sand only a few feet away. The tide was coming in, but it wasn't as if he was worried about his clothes. After the crash, his pants were in shreds, his coat was smoldering, and somehow his shirt was gone. Once the sun was up, he had nothing to do, so he went back to check the wreckage and abandoned luggage once again. He got a some dark cargo pants out of it, but not much else.

The clothes could be bothered with later; what concerned him was what he didn't know. He hated not knowing things.

From what little evidence he had, it was clear that he'd put up a bit of a fight before being drugged, packed up, and attemptedly sent to L.A., but there was still the matter of who'd done it. Naturally, after bringing so many high-profile cases to a dramatic close, he'd made a few enemies. It wouldn't have been a surprise to him if the people who'd beat him to a pulp were connected to those who he'd managed to put away.

"_CHEEKBONES_!" Sawyer came up the beach, still sporting the vibrant swollen lip from that morning. If all of his previous thoughts had been a conversation with someone (and if he could actually talk), 'Speak of the devil' would've applied to this moment. Instead, Sherlock just cut his eyes at Sawyer, making no movement to stand up and face him. That would've implied that he actually gave a damn about what Sawyer might or might not say.

"That's my book you're sittin' on."

Sherlock checked under his rear, where there was in fact a book laying half buried in the sand. He scooted off it, chucked the book at his feet, and made use of Hurley's gifts, writing, _"Watership Down?_ Really?" in quick, barely legible scrawl.

Sawyer scoffed. "I only got so many options out here." He went further from the waterline to read.

Sherlock glared after him for a moment before abandoning that train of thought for his mind castle. There was thinking to be done

* * *

_Please read your designated A/N:_

_**LOSTIES:** I hope this is still on par with the actual show. I've seen every episode, but I still have to check with Wikipedia every now and then for the details._

_**SHERLOCKIANS/CUMBERBITCHES:** Let's all just take a minute to think about what this chapter is centered on: Sherlock on the beach without a shirt. Just think about that._

**Relena Duo:**_ Here's a shout out for being the first and (as of yet) only follower for this story. (cough cough EVERYBODY START FOLLOWING THIS STORY PLEASE cough)_

_**EVERYONE ELSE I FORGOT TO MENTION**: Eat, sleep, review._


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